


taking shots in the dark

by Frostbite_SJC



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Flashbacks, M/M, My First AO3 Post, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Self-Indulgent, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Temporary Character Death, idrk how to tag so uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 20:30:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17884700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostbite_SJC/pseuds/Frostbite_SJC
Summary: When Steve wakes up again, the horizon is painted a rosy-golden hue. The clock next to his bed reads that it’s almost six, he still smells hungover although he’s not, and there’s a man standing at the foot of his bed. Staring at him.One of these things is not like the others.ORA self-indulgent, admittedly short fic about how Steve Rogers finds Bucky Barnes wherever he goes.





	taking shots in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> This is a pretty short and very self-indulgent fic, and is also my first foray into writing fanfiction for Stucky. Not my first fanfiction, but is my first fanfiction being posted on Ao3. Constructive criticism will be greatly appreciated! And thank you for reading this :)
> 
> (Also, do note that this is being cross-posted on the MCU Amino under my username 'frostbite'. Supposed to be written for a valentine's day challenge.)

He tries his best. He really does. But it’s not the same with Bucky. 

Steve sighs and leans against the wall, grasping a bottle of scotch in his hand. Natasha stands next to him, holding a bottle of vodka. Steve doesn’t know how Nat drinks so much yet not get drunk, so he’s long chalked it up to her Russian heritage. Vodka is like water to her, as she’s said before.

Meanwhile, Steve brings his own bottle of alcohol up to his lips and takes another gulp. This is his second bottle this night, and luckily, or unluckily, he can’t get drunk. It depends on how he feels, and right now being unable to get drunk feels like a curse to him. 

They are two hours into Stark’s charity gala in order to raise funds for… something. Steve’s not exactly sure, but it might be something related to Valentine’s day, as the fourteenth of February is tomorrow. The blond supersoldier pulls a face and shakes his head. That doesn’t make sense. Valentine being tomorrow is more likely a coincidence. 

Steve can feel Natasha’s judgy stare directed at him, and he shifts uncomfortably. “Why aren’t you dancing with Clint anyways?” he asks her. He turns his head to look at her reaction, but all he sees is a blank look in her eyes as well as a neutral look on her face. 

“He doesn’t like to dance. Besides, we’re not like that,” she replies, then takes a sip out of her own bottle. Steve shrugs. A whole paragraph is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. He knows what he had wanted to say, and it’s so hypocritical because he hadn’t done anything he had wanted to say. 

_Take your chance before it’s gone. You’ll never know if you could’ve gotten it until you try, and anyway, it’s better than waiting for him to disappear before you finally realize how many chances you’ve missed. Take that shot. Before he’s gone for good. Please._

__~~Don’t make the same mistakes that I did.~~

Steve drowns his thoughts and regrets in another swig of alcohol. 

* * *

_Bloody, battered, bruised, broken._

__

_Heavy breaths. A heaving chest. An arm tattered and torn beyond repair, bones crushed from the curse of gravity. An axe slices through the arm, and all that’s left in the snow is a mangled limb. Fresh crimson stains the snow, and so does tears from both pain and grief._

__

_Steve watches on as Bucky gets pulled away by faceless figures. “Buck?” Steve wants to ask, but his feet are frozen to the ground and mouth glued shut. The scene is like mist and unclear, with the background as well as every single detail constantly shifting. Only Bucky is the anchor to this vision, the only solid thing that keeps Steve focused._

__

_“Buck, I’m so sorry,” Steve wants to say. Even if he was able to speak, Bucky wouldn’t be able to hear him anyways. The brunet’s eyes are shut, conscious closed off to the rest of the world. When Steve finally manages to speak, to move, he realizes that his dream is already drifting out of focus._

* * *

__

__

When Steve wakes up, he realizes that it’s the fourteenth of February. 

The blond groans and rolls over in his bed, sunlight bursting through the windows and stinging his eyes. It’s been months since he’s found out Bucky was alive, so dreams like these are far too common already. It shouldn’t be, but it is-he misses Bucky, and that’s a fact.

He remembers the previous night and a conversation between him and Natasha. 

_“It’s been months, Steve. All we’ve found are Hydra bases, but no trace of Barnes. If he wants to be found, he’ll find you. If you say you trust me, then trust me on this,” Natasha murmurs, sipping her vodka._

__“Yeah Nat, I know, but-”_ _

___“No buts, Steve. I knew him as the Winter Soldier, and I know what he will likely do next.”_ _ _

____“But Nat, I knew him,” Steve replies, the word ‘first’ not said but heavily implied. Natasha pulls a face but continues to sip her vodka. Steve sighs. He knows that Natasha won't listen to what he’s going to say next, yet she’s most likely right on this._ _ _ _

____Steve only returns from the memory of the previous night when he realizes blood is dripping on the bedsheets. He glances down at his hands, realizing that his clenched fists had dug his fingernails into his palm. Crescent-shaped cuts that had formed seconds ago are already healing up. The blood stains his bedsheets but instead of cleaning the mess, up, he closes his eyes to drift off yet again._ _ _ _

* * *

_____The two young men clamber onto the fire escape. It’s a cool night, the breeze just enough that it isn’t too cold to make Steve sick. Bucky forces Steve to carry a blanket out anyways. Few other people who live nearby are out on the fire escape too, the rickety stairs shaking a little as those from upper floors wriggle around to get comfortable._ _ _ _ _

______It’s the fourteenth of February, but that’s not the main reason as to why people are staying outside. It’s just that it’s a nice night, with the breeze being a nice change of pace from people’s stuffy apartments._ _ _ _ _ _

_______Bucky hums a song while Steve leans against the outer brick wall, sketching on a tiny notepad. The brunet sits perpendicular to Steve so that he faces Steve’s right, and their legs are tangled together beneath Steve’s blanket. The pencil in Steve’s hand is barely a pencil and resembles more a stub than a piece of stationery, but he makes it work. The paper he uses isn’t great either, just scraps of leftover butcher paper stapled together. He won’t use his proper notepad for these kinds of things- those will be used for the drafts of the occasional commission he receives._ _ _ _ _ _ _

________It’s been about an hour and a half since they’ve settled on the fire escape, and Bucky’s humming has turned into a rambling that Steve’s decided to tune out. His storytelling is punctuated by the sound of sipping from a bottle every few seconds, cheap alcohol that burns down Bucky’s throat but doesn’t make his voice any less melodious._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________“Steve? Steve, listen to me, I-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Bucky’s words are cut off by Steve shoving his drawing in Bucky’s face. “What do you think?” he asks, and Bucky rolls his eyes. He knows that the drawing is going to be good, but he’s really not in the mood to be interrupted mid-sentence, and- wow. Oh. Wow._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________It’s just a simple sketch of Bucky slouched on the fire escape, the hazy night sky shaded behind him. The figure in the drawing seems to be gazing off into the distance, eyes far away and bright. But his face is impossibly detailed, with every worry line and slight curves of his lips etched into the brown paper._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Bucky tilts his head up to look at Steve, and Steve is gazing at Bucky with a mischievous glint in his eye. “So? What do you think?” the blond asks, although he already knows the answer. Smug bastard._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________“It’s gorgeous, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve smiles at his words. The bottle in Bucky’s grip is almost empty, most of the alcohol already in his bloodstream. “I love you, you know that?” he suddenly blurts out loud, and Steve stares at him in shock. Bucky offers him a dopey smile in return. “I really do.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

* * *

_____________When Steve wakes up again, the horizon is painted a rosy-golden hue. The clock next to his bed reads that it’s almost six, he still smells hungover although he’s not, and there’s a man standing at the foot of his bed. Staring at him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________One of these things is not like the others._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________Steve hasn’t had much time to himself, much less draw, but he still understands what the importance of the focal point in an artwork is. And he knows that the man in front of him is not a painting, but he might as well as be. His eyes are what draws Steve in- a smoky blue, painted with watercolour and infused with an aura of pain. His lips ridiculously pink but downturned, filled-in eyebrows scrunched up. Lines are sketched and shaded in on his forehead, and his left arm glints like it’s coated with chrome paint._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________But despite all these differences with the boy he used to know, back in 1940 Brooklyn, the smiling childhood lover with tousled hair and smelling of cigarette smoke- he knows who exactly it is. The man in front of him isn’t the Winter Soldier. It’s Bucky Barnes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________Steve smiles at him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________“Hey, Buck.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


End file.
